


This Divergent Highway

by textsandscones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (except not really), Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Third Person Limited, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textsandscones/pseuds/textsandscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case in Florida suddenly goes awry, Sherlock and John end up stuck in the middle of an arid American highway, trying to find any way of preventing a Las Vegas homicide. However, Sherlock must accept that he can't last for hours on end without finding rest and comfort, which just so happens to be benefited by John's presence.</p><p>For piningjohn on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Divergent Highway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eliane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/gifts).



> This was stuck in my head all of Sunday, thanks to piningjohn's brilliant road trip headcanons, so this ended up getting away from me and I wrote much more than I'd honestly expected to. But it was a joy to write!
> 
> I might expand on it, but I am just a lowly Brit, so I wouldn't be surprised if I made a few Anglicisms.

Sherlock's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, his brow furrowed as he glances at John's sleeping reflection in the rear view mirror. His head is nestled against his worn oatmeal jumper as a makeshift pillow. The dozing man almost appears peaceful, curled up on one side across the backseat of the car, if it were not for the obvious: a cut on his eyebrow and a troubled snore and groan every time he turns on his left side. Bruised below the ribcage: purpling, not dire. Sherlock is almost certain that John has been pretending he's fine, probably for his sake. As always.  _Fine. It's all fine._

Sherlock focuses back onto the endless stretch of road ahead of him, eyes blinking in the settling sunset, hoping beyond all hope that he can find a motel before nightfall. He doesn't care how long it takes, doesn't frankly care for a destination right now, as long as it is as far west as he can possibly get.

It's a decent car: vintage Camaro, reasonable working order, and _technically not_ _stolen_ as he had so earnestly assured John. If a man is so arrogant as to offer up his own car in a poker game, then what is Sherlock to do but oblige and accept his winnings?

Sherlock itches to reach for another cigarette but restrains himself, distracted, wondering just how things could have ended up like this. On the run from a Florida crime ring - containing a thug who just so happened to recognise the very consulting detective that had dismantled Mr Hudson's drug cartel five years earlier. Small world.

They should only have been away from London for two weeks at the most, and yet here they are, high-tailing it across highways to prevent an imminent homicide of five billionaire targets in Las Vegas, all while trying to evade the very criminals that they need to catch.

Sherlock spots the glaring neon sign of a roadside motel, relief and exhaustion rippling through him. If John were awake, he's adamant the man would make a point over Sherlock's stubborn insistence that his body was _mere transport_. A fond smile on his lips, Sherlock parks and turns to wake his friend. For once, though he would never hear the end of it if he told him, John was completely right.

* * *

 

"You can take the bed, I'll be fine."

"Sherlock, you're a rotten liar. Actually, scratch that,” John smiles, dropping their holdalls on the over-starched sheets. At least the place was clean. “If it wasn't for your pokerface we wouldn't be getting anywhere, right? Just go the bloody hell to sleep. You need it.”

Sherlock tries to disguise a yawn behind his hand before stretching and tugging off his dust-ridden shirt on his way to the bathroom. Reddish desert sand cakes his boots, a tear across the knee of his jeans after that last scuffle in New Orleans. He curses himself for forgetting just how far Hudson’s network of friends and foes stretched.

“I’ll head over to the convenience store, alright, Sherlock?”

At the call of his name, face washed free of the desert dirt, Sherlock peers at John’s troubled reflection in the glare of the tacky bathroom light.

Ah, his back, of course.

He busies himself with a flannel, breathing slowly, grateful for John to at least have the tact to not bring up the lingering scars. Two years alone, travelling across countries and continents, meeting violence and torture when unprepared; this seemed like a carefree road trip in comparison.

“Thank you,” Sherlock sighs, a tired smile gracing his face. “Pick up some cigarettes while you’re there?”

A long shot, but hope is a fine thing. The sound of John’s laughter is like music to his ears, a long lost concerto he had once tried to compose on his violin. John Watson’s laugh couldn't possibly be replicated by a sequence of vibrations upon strings.

“Not a chance, you git.”

Sherlock clenches the edge of the sink as John leaves, still paranoid about his absence even if only for a moment. _He can look after himself, you idiot._ Making his way back to his bed, he slumps upon the sheets, reaching across to grasp John’s disregarded jumper and hold it to his cheek. All he truly wanted was some home comforts, and if that currently meant the reassurance of the continued existence of John Hamish Watson, then so be it.

He feels John’s hand close over his arm a few minutes later, patting lightly to rouse him, easing around the recent knife wound on his shoulder. At the sharp agony of antiseptic against the cut, he jolts upright, a childish pout on his lips. John holds back the hint of a smirk before covering his shoulder in gauze.

“Yeah, this might sting a little.”

Reluctantly admitting a smile, Sherlock observes John’s steady fingers wrapping and working a bandage across his skin, feeling something akin to the elation of a solved case inside his chest. _How very sentimental of you, Sherlock._ Ignoring the petty nagging in his mind, reminiscent of Mycroft’s incessant nitpicks, Sherlock places his hand over John’s, holding a strip of bandage out of the way as John finishes tucking it all into place.

John meets his gaze, and it may possibly be the heat of this bloody awful southern summer, or the need to reassure each other that these wounds will pass, but John leans forward and presses his forehead to Sherlock’s, the lingering taste of bourbon on his breath.

“I've dealt with druglords, consulting criminals, blackmailers, serial killers, and yet-” Sherlock releases a shuddering breath from his lips, feeling inadequate that he can do no more than squeeze John’s fingers in solace, “and yet I couldn't possibly have imagined getting this far without you here, John.”

They both know that this isn't intended as flattery, but John smiles and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, relief settling in their stomachs. They were as safe as they could be given the circumstances.

“Look at us both. This is ridiculous,” Sherlock muffles against John’s shirt, a warm chuckle escaping him.

John gulps down on the lump in his throat, remembering the last time someone had said that. He can’t help it - doesn't want to deny it at all - the fact that he would stick with this madman through thick and thin, no matter how ridiculous things became.

It’s an unfamiliar town, an unfamiliar country, and _this_ , this space of bare inches between the two of them is definitely unfamiliar territory.

“Is this really the most ridiculous thing we've ever done? Running from several dozen criminals all the way across America?”

Sherlock watches John out of the corner of his eye as his tongue nervously licks his slightly chapped bottom lip. He lifts his head from the crook of John’s neck, incredibly aware that John is holding his naked torso against him. The touch of his own fingertips against John’s worn cotton shirt feels even more intimate. He carefully avoids smoothing his hand over John’s sore ribs.

“Well, you would know, you invaded Afghanistan.”

Before John can even begin to giggle aloud, Sherlock’s mouth presses against his, capturing the resonance of laughter between their lips. Sherlock hums for a moment, a soft wet click audible when he opens his mouth and hesitates, his panting breaths mingling with the already humid air around them. John lets out a strangled groan as his hands reach to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head, his lips reciprocating the fleeting fervour Sherlock had shown him.

“John, I need- please-“

Sherlock’s fingers cling to John’s shoulders as he strains to pull him on top of him, whispering apologetic shushes and ‘are you alright?’s when John winces and swears. They turn to lie on their sides, accommodating John’s aching bruise and Sherlock’s shoulder.

Facing each other in the lowlight of the flickering motel lamps, John nudges forward to place one more kiss to Sherlock’s full lips, tender to the touch.

“ _Sherlock_.”

How one’s own name can sound like the most divine prayer, and the most lascivious curse at the same time from this man’s lips, Sherlock has no logical explanation for, but he hears it all the same. He keens softly when John’s fingers soon come to rest upon the belt loops of his jeans.

“Why? Why did I – why did we - wait so long?” John breathes against his cheek, his eyes wide and searching for an answer from Sherlock’s surprisingly tender expression.

“Honestly, John, I shouldn't have to repeat myself. We are both ridiculous men,” Sherlock points out, before bashfully lowering his gaze once more, a bittersweet smile upon his face. “I thought, well the evidence suggested-”

“That I wasn't attracted to you?” John interrupts, his fingers running through Sherlock’s loose curls, the knot of worry and panic in his chest dissipating. “Trust you not to take your own advice, you eejit, _‘you see but you don’t observe’_. I - Jesus – I thought you-“

Sherlock tugs at John’s bottom lip gently with his teeth and begins to pepper his jaw and neck with light kisses.

“I know. It doesn't matter.”

Regardless of whether they were in the comforting confines of their Baker Street home, or a dusty half-decent roadside motel several thousand miles away, Sherlock supposes that things wouldn't have been so different. He would have told him, should have told him, years ago, before his fall from the rooftop of St Barts, before he had been driven to worry and fret about John’s absence from his life, and his absence from John’s.

He plucks at the buttons of John’s shirt, peeling away his vest to explore the warmth and slightly elevated beating of his chest. His tongue peeks out to taste the salt of his skin as he places a kiss just to the left of John’s sternum, letting John clench his fingers in his hair while his teeth graze one nipple and suck lightly.

He is almost torturously slow in unzipping John’s jeans as John rocks his hips towards him. Pressing moist, open-mouthed kisses to the dip of one hip, he crawls down to suck at the tip of John’s cock through his cotton pants. Sherlock glances up and smiles as John groans, a low, feral sound that sends shivers down his spine.

Shifting John’s jeans and underwear down his thighs, his tender mouth trails not long after, kneeling over his bedfellow to divest him entirely. He shifts abovd John to stroke at his calves and thighs, before leading his fingers to linger over his scarred shoulder. He takes note and silently treasures each part of John’s body, be it scathed or unscathed. If it was not for the very first obvious scar, the starburst whorl upon John’s shoulderblade, he would not be here today. Sherlock decides that that is definitely a good thing, and doesn't care if it’s quite selfish or arrogant of him to enjoy that fact.

John takes him by surprise. He tugs Sherlock back down to lie beside him, eager to clutch at the tight denim that clothes Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock unbuttons and slides out of his jeans before tossing them aside, his breaths caught in his throat as John finds the opportunity to lick and suck at his neck and collar. He can feel John heavy and throbbing, pressed against his stomach, much like himself, and can’t help but rut against John’s thigh. An embarrassing whimper escapes him, only encouraging John to lather more attention upon his clavicle.

“Sher-erlock, we don’t have any-”

“I know.”

 _Always the perfect patron to medical health, John_. Sherlock smiles fondly, reluctant to no longer feel John’s tongue against his neck.

Letting his fingers drag and dip against his stomach, he holds them both in hand; John is most certainly thicker, though similar in length. Sherlock’s face burns red at the possible prospects that their future relationship would bring, burying his face into John’s hairline as he groans and rocks his hips harder at the very thought of John thrusting down upon him, inside him, throwing all his senses into the most perfect chaos.

“John, oh, I can’t- please! Please!”

John’s hand rests upon his, squeezing and rubbing against Sherlock’s glans until he’s left practically mewling.

“You have no idea what you do to me, you gorgeous - oh, you _fucking_ gorgeous madman.”

Sherlock throws his thigh over John’s, trying to keep his eyes open and watch John watching him fall and fly into disarray, all his thoughts simply begging John, John. _John!_

Sherlock urges a ferocious kiss, biting and licking open John’s mouth until they’re both red and swollen-lipped. He barely recognises any coherency in the whines and moans and pleas he makes against John’s cheek, as he spills himself between them. He wonders if anything he could have said in the moments of pure elation afterwards had caused John to curse and groan and follow suit.

Reluctantly, John clambers to the bathroom and back with a damp flannel, seeing as Sherlock can’t possibly move from his supine state of bliss.

He feels his eyes shutter, only aware of the flaking white paint upon the ceiling and the obnoxious neon glare from the signs through the window. Before he drifts off into a much-needed slumber, he grins and looks at his hand when John threads his fingers between them.

* * *

 

“You know, I'm perfectly capable of driving the rest of the way myself. I was a soldier-“

“Oh, thanks for the reminder, Captain _Obvious_.”

Exchanging smirks over the Camaro’s hardtop, they both sidle in to their seats, John resting his arm across the back of Sherlock’s while pulling out of the parking lot. His fingers tangle between the damp curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck for a moment.

 “Give over, Sherlock. All I'm saying is, despite _this_ ,” John gestures towards his lower ribs, “I'm used to helping drive for hours on end in Afghanistan, so I could easily get us to Vegas single-handed.”

 “And just what would you be doing with the other hand?”

Sherlock leans into John’s warm touch, humming at the rub of calloused fingertips against his scalp. John grins back at him before revving the engine once upon the highway, leaving the desert dust trailing in their wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Ugh, I always seem to notice little errors so long after writing! I'll have to promise myself not to post things when I'm tired in future. Thanks for the support so far, definitely hope to write more fics soon!


End file.
